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Guido  Bruno 

Sentimental  Studies 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


U«i».  at  OALIF.  LIBKAKY.  LOS  ANOELtS 


Sentimental  Studies 

Stories  of  Life  and  Love 


NEW      YORK.      1920 


Copyright  1920 

by 
Guldo  Bruno 


Table  of  Contents 

332>3 


The  Madonna  of  Our  Square 

Midnight  in  a    Pawnshop 

Tragedy  in  a  Birdhouse 

A  Woman's  Revenge 

Three  Dollars  and  Sixty  Cents 

Dead  Man's  Eyes 

Liars 


665839 


The  Madonna  of  Our  Square 

YOU,  perhaps,  have  never  taken  a  walk  down  Thompson  Street 
right  round  the  corner  of  Washington  Square  and,  therefore,  are 
not  familiar  with  the  row  of  a  dozen  or  more  small  wooden  houses 
which  the  irony  of  fate  has  left  there  among  brick  mansions  and  tene 
ment  buildings,  a  stone's  throw  away  from  the  thundering  Elevated;  a 
sad  memento  of  the  Greenwich  Village  of  yore. 

But  if  you  ever  strolled  past  these  houses  you  must  have  noticed 
the  one  whose  door  was  painted  white,  which  looked  so  clean  amidst 
the  ugliness  of  a  neglected  side  street.  Its  windows  shon  in  the  sun;  a 
couple  of  geraniums  were  on  the  window  sill,  and  white  muslin  curtains 
swinging  rythmically  with  the  blowing  wind  permitted  now  and  then  a 
peep  into  the  rooms.  The  sidewalk  was  always  well  swept,  and  most 
likely  a  baby  carriage  would  be  standing  before  the  open  house  door; 
a  white  baby  carriage  with  netting  spread  all  over  it,  a  fat  little  baby 
slumbering  peacefully  in  it,  or  playing  with  its  tiny  feet,  searching  with 
big  black  eyes  for  its  mother.  Often  when  I  passed  the  little  house  I 
felt  happy  because  there  was  such  an  idyll  in  this  noisy  side  street.  And 
we  all  are  glad  to  see  love  in  a  little  white  cottage  with  a  baby  car 
riage  standing  in  front  of  the  door. 

It  is  one  of  the  tragedies  of  a  big  city  that  we  live  next  to  people 
who  could  be  our  friends  and  whose  friends  we  could  be,  but  whom  we 
never  meet.  We  pass  them  daily;  a  change  in  the  familiar  surroundings 
would  cause  us  to  wonder  and  be  curious,  but  we  rarely  take  the  initia 
tive  or  trouble  to  inquire.  We  know  we  should  lend  our  help  if  needed, 
but  don't  want  to  proffer  it,  and,  therefore,  we  walk  on  and  don't  turn 
to  the  right  or  the  left:  ships  that  pass  in  the  night. 

A  time  came  when  every  morning  I  had  to  go  out  quite  early.  Then 
I  saw  the  mother  of  the  baby.  She  was  a  young  girlish  thing,  very 
slender,  very  pale,  with  dark  glowing  eyes,  her  black  hair  combed  in 
madonna  fashion,  to  both  sides  covering  the  ears.  She  stood  in  front 
of  her  little  house,  evidently  waiting  for  someone,  and  then  crossed  over 
to  the  other  side  of  the  street  and  approached  the  letter  carrier.  She  was 
all  expectancy.  There  was  a  faint  smile  on  her  lips.  She  looked  pretty. 
The  letter  carrier  had  nothing  for  her.  Slowly  she  returned  to  the  house 
and  disappeared  through  the  white  door.  The  next  day  I  witnessed  the 
same  scene.  One  evening  I  came  home  quite  late;  the  square  was  de 
serted  only  the  cross  glowing  above  the  Judson  Hotel ;  the  busses  had 
ceased  buzzing,  and  the  night  wind  rustled  in  the  trees.  Her  house  was 
dark;  she  was  seated  at  a  window,  with  both  arms  on  the  window  sill, 
resting  her  face  in  her  hands,  like  one  of  the  angel-children  of  the  Sis- 


6  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

tine  Madonna.  She  looked  sad,  her  eyes  had  a  faraway  look.  I  remem 
ber  that  I  wanted  to  call  to  her  "Hallo,  Neighbor!"  and  later  on  in  my 
rooms  I  felt  that  she,  perhaps,  would  have  liked  me  to  say  a  word  to  her; 
she  seemed  so  lonely  in  that  little  house  in  the  quiet  deserted  street.  An 
hour  later  I  went  out  to  mail  a  letter.  She  was  busy  preparing  some 
food  for  her  baby. 

Days  passed  and  I  only  saw  her  silhouetted  against  her  curtain  hug 
ging  the  baby  in  her  arms,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  small  room.  In 
the  morning  she  would  watch  the  letter  carrier  from  her  window;  she 
would  watch  him  until  he  had  passed  her  door. 

I  went  out  to  the  country  for  a  few  days,  and  by  habit  looked  up 
at  her  windows  upon  my  return.  They  were  shut,  the  curtains  drawn 
tightly.  The  letter  carrier  came  round  the  corner  just  them  and  gave 
me  a  bunch  of  bills.  "How  about  our  neighbor?"  I  asked.  "She  doesn't 
seem  to  be  anxious  to  get  a  letter  from  you  to-day."  "She  got  one  yes 
terday,"  he  replied.  "It  was  the  first  one  in  four  weeks,  the  first  one 
since  she  came  down  to  live  in  the  village." 

My  bills  kept  me  busy  all  day  and  worrying  all  nighth,  and  I  didn't 
even  notice  that  there  was  no  light  in  my  neighbor's  windows  until  I 
recollected  it  the  next  morning. 

An  unusual  crowd  of  people  had  assembled  in  our  street.  Tom, 
the  cop  on  the  beat,  was  posted  in  front  of  the  white  door  of  the  little 
house.  He  looked  like  a  giant,  leaning  against  the  low  narrow  door. 
"What's  the  matter,  Tom?"  I  called  out  of  the  window.  "Come  and 
see  for  yourself,"  was  his  answer.  And  I  hurried  out  as  I  was,  in  shirt 
sleeves,  without  a  collar,  just  in  time  to  enter  with  the  coroner  who 
emerged  from  his  motor  car. 

Both  were  dead,  the  baby  in  its  white  painted  little  carriage  and 
the  mother  on  her  cot.  A  happy  smile  seemed  to  linger  on  both  faces. 
There  wasn't  a  drop  of  milk  in  the  house,  not  a  crumb  of  bread  and 
not  a  penny  of  money.  On  the  table  lay  about  a  dozen  pawn  rickets, 
the  last  dated  four  days  before.  She  had  pawned  some  sheets  and  table 
clothes  for  fifty  cents.  A  letter  lay  on  the  table  addressed  to  her.  Some 
man  up-state  told  her  on  one  page  that  he  was  married  now  and  that 
she  must 

"Hustle  for  herself  and  the  £i'J  a*  n>e//  as  she  could.  And  not 
to  trouble  him  any  more,  as  everything  mas  over  between  them  noiv 
forever." 

Tom ,  big  husky  Tom,  who  had  got  honorable  mention  only  re 
cently  from  the  department  for  running  in  that  Hester  Street  gang  of 
gunmen,  sounded  quite  hoarse:  "If  I  had  only  known  this.  I  saw  her 
almost  every  evening."  I  do  think  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  You 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  7 

know  Tom  got  married  only  fourteen  days  ago  to  a  fine  healthy  girl, 
just  such  a  girl  as  this  one  must  have  been. 

"Starvation  and  a  broken  heart"  was  the  coroner's  verdict. 

I  remembered  the  night  I  saw  her  at  her  window  staring  up  to  the 
glowing  cross  over  the  Judson.  But  wasn't  I  nearer  than  that  cross? 

That  is  the  tragedy  of  the  big  city.  We  see  without  seeing.  Con 
ventions  kill  our  spontaneous  impulses,  and  we  continue  selfishly  on  our 
own  road. 


8  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

Midnight  in  a  Pawn  Shop 

MIDNIGHT.  Midnight  of  the  New  Year.  The  town  hall  clock 
tolls  the  last  hours  of  the  old  year.  Serenely  as  ever.  In  a 
matter  of  fact  way.  Clocks  know  no  sentiment.  Time  is  eternal. 
New  Year's  midnight  is  as  any  other  midnight,  is  as  any  noon.  Patient 
and  impassionate. 

The  last  twelve  o'clock  of  1919. 

The  bells  of  Trinity  rang  into  the  hilarious  noise  of  the  crowds  on 
City  Hall  Square  and  lower  Broadway;  rang  through  the  hoarse  voice 
of  fog  horns,  of  ferryboats  and  steamers  in  the  harbor.  Rang  into  the 
chatter  of  merry  men  and  women  who  wished  each  other  a  Happy  New 
Year  loudly  and  shriekingly;  rang  over  the  graves  of  Trinity's  church 
yard,  high  over  the  tops  of  houses,  of  bridgeheads,  of  skyscrapers,  rang 
out  across  the  river  into  the  ocean ;  rang  high  to  the  heavens,  to  the 
passing  clouds,  to  the  stars,  strewn  like  tiny  sparkling  diamonds  on  the 
dark  velvet  far,  far  behind  the  moon ;  rang  out  merrily  and  imposingly : 
"Time  is  eternal,  but  we  ring  it  in.  Men  come  and  stay  and  go,  but 
our  ringing  marks  the  high  spots  of  their  lives. 

"We  ring  and  they  laugh  in  joy.  We  ring,  and  they  cry  in  sorrow. 
We  ring  in  revolutions.  We  ring  in  peace.  We  rang  for  the  Presi 
dent's  inauguration.  We  rang  in  peace  a  year  ago.  We  rang  while  the 
crowds  made  merry  in  Bowling  Green.  We  ring  over  the  Stock  Ex 
change. 

"We  are  the  bells  of  Trinity." 

Park  Row  on  the  other  side  of  the  Pulitzer  Building  is  dark  and 
quiet.  An  elevated  train  thunders  at  intervals  over  its  structures,  a  Bow 
ery  car  whizzes  around  the  corner  and  is  gone.  Solitary  figures  slouch 
along  the  deserted  buildings,  with  collars  upturned,  hats  drawn  over  their 
faces,  hands  deep  in  their  pockets.  No  warming  light  of  saloons  beckons. 
The  "ten  cents  a  night"  lodging  houses  have  given  way  one  by  one.  A 
mission  house  is  lighted  amidst  a  row  of  pawnshops.  It  is  a  harbor.  But 
most  of  the  men  prefer  the  sea  of  the  street.  Aimlessly  they  roam.  Like 
the  shadows  of  an  old  New  York  that  has  passed  on  into  storyland 
.  .  .  when  the  Bowery  was  the  Bowery,  and  Five  Points  the  haven  of 
gangland. 

The   twelfth   solemn   stroke   from   the  town   hall. 

The  hour  of  the  pawns  has  come.  The  one  hour  in  the  whole 
long  year  when  the  lifeless  objects  in  the  pawnbroker's  safe  are  given 
voice. 

"Your  hour  has  come,"  began  the  old  black  safe  in  the  pawnshop 
on  the  corner,  that  proudly  started  the  hundred  and  ninth  year  of  its 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  9 

money-lending  career.  "Most  of  you  are  new  here.  Others  were  here 
before.  Thy  know,  and  they  will  agree  with  me.  Please,  don't  all  of 
you  try  to  talk.  Listen  to  some  who  really  have  something  to  say.  You 
all  are  hostages.  You  all  were  put  here  because  your  masters  needed 
money.  You  all  can  tell  pathetic  and  interesting  stories.  The  masters 
of  some  of  you  needed  the  money  for  bread,  others  for  luxuries.  You 
come  from  old  mothers  and  young  sweethearts,  from  wayward  sons,  and 
from  husbands  in  trouble.  All  of  you  were  bought  for  money,  and 
pawned  for  money.  Be  unselfish  for  once.  Forget  yourself  and  your 
sorrows,  that  might  be  ended  to-morrow,  should  your  master  care  to 
come  and  take  you  out.  Tell  me  about  the  strange  world  that  I  have 
never  seen.  For  sixty-two  years  now,  I  am  here  in  this  Park  Row  pawn 
shop,  parts  of  me,  still  longer.  My  back  is  part  of  the  original  safe,  in 
stalled  about  ninety  years  ago.  Hundreds  of  thousands  such  as  you 
have  passed  in  and  out  and  I  have  sheltered  them.  Some  come  for  a 
short  while,  others  for  a  year.  A  year  is  my  limit.  Then  your  owner 
has  to  show  his  affection  for  you.  He  has  to  pay  up  his  interest.  If 
he  doesn't,  out  you  go.  To  an  auction  room,  where  you  are  sold  to  the 
highest  bidder.  But  how  times  must  have  changed!  I  see  no  more  the 
people  that  used  to  come  in  here.  Working  men  out  of  work,  widows 
with  little  children  in  their  arms,  gamblers,  sports,  gay  women,  crooks, 
they  all  used  to  come  here,  leaving  the  spoil  of  evil  nights  to  take  with 
them  cash  enough  to  go  on  with  their  merry  lives.  Nice  people  used  to 
come  in,  too,  stealthily,  as  into  a  place  of  shame.  A  visit  to  the  pawn 
broker's  was  their  last  refuge." 

The  hundreds  of  various  things  of  adornment,  wrapped  up  in  brown 
paper  and  properly  numbered,  seemed  to  discuss  the  safe's  little  speech 
for  a  while,  and  to  agree  with  the  proposition. 

"You're  right,"  said  a  gold  watch  with  Swiss  movement,  "what's 
the  use  of  talking.  Take  my  case  for  instance.  If  I  am  not  here,  I  am 
in  my  master's  pocket.  I  know  he  misses  me  because  he  gets  me  back 
the  very  moment  his  check  arrives.  He  is  paid  on  the  fifteenth.  On 
the  third  or  fourth  he  takes  me  down  here.  I  am  here  every  month  now, 
for  almost  ten  years.  He  is  getting  more  money  for  me  now  than  ever 
before.  Swiss  movements  have  gone  up  in  price.  And  I  am  afraid 
some  day  he  won't  have  enough  money  to  take  me  out.  I'd  like  to  be 
sold  at  auction.  Life  is  too  monotonous.  I  am  still  young,  and  I  am 
tired  of  my  old  master.  .  .  ."  "Hush  up,"  said  the  safe,  "the  large 
diamond  over  there  wishes  to  talk."  All  turned  toward  the  six-carat 
solitaire  that  sparkled  pure  blue  and  seemed  so  out  of  place  in  the  brown 
packing  paper.  "I  come  from  South  Africa,"  the  diamond  began;  "I 
won't  tire  you  with  my  uninteresting  youth.  I  passed  through  many 


10  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

hands  before  I  ended  up  on  the  Strand  in  London.  A  young  man  pre 
sented  me  to  the  wife  of  his  friend.  A  little  later  she  followed  him 
here  to  the  States.  One  day  he  left  her,  but  she  wore  me  on  the  gold 
finger  of  her  right  hand.  On  a  certain  evening  we  took  dinner  with 
some  friends;  we  hailed  a  taxi  to  take  us  back  to  our  apartment.  The 
taxi  driver  took  us  into  the  park,  knocked  my  mistress  senseless,  took  me 
off  her  finger,  and  I  lived  in  his  waist  pocket  until  he  sold  me  one  day 
to  some  man  for  a  ridiculously  small  price.  I  was  taken  out  of  my  set 
ting  and  sold  again  to  a  jeweler.  From  the  jeweler's  safe  I  went  to  a 
workshop  where  they  put  me  into  platinum.  From  there  into  the  show 
case.  An  elderly  man  bought  me  and  gave  me  to  a  young  woman.  He 
gave  me  to  her  one  evening,  and  on  the  following  morning  the  girl  brought 
me  down  here.  She  must  have  gotten  a  handsome  sum  for  me." 

Everybody  seemed  disappointed.  Such  a  divinely  sparkling  stone, 
and  what  a  trivial  story.  A  necklace  of  well-matched  pearls  laughed 
ironically  and  so  loudly  that  every  one  turned  to  it.  "It's  always  that 
way  with  diamonds,"  the  pearl  necklace  said,  "especially  here  in  this 
country.  I,  of  course,  come  from  England.  I  mean  that  my  last  place 
of  residence  was  in  England.  But  my  pearls  were  chosen  from  all  over 
the  world.  A  selection  of  the  best  there  were.  The  two  in  the  middle, 
for  instance,  belonged  to  an  Indian  Rajah.  They  had  to  be  stolen. 
They  couldn't  be  bought  for  any  money.  I  would  never  have  sunk  to 
this,"  and  she  made  a  gesture  of  contempt  toward  her  companions,  "if 
it  hadn't  been  for  that  American  so-called  'Heiress.'  Of  course,  I  was 
in  pawn  before.  The  old  duchess  had  to  pawn  me  once,  after  the 
duke's  death.  There  were  large  tailors'  and  florists'  bills  to  be  paid. 
Later  the  young  duke  married  the  grocer  king's  daughter.  She  came  to 
London,  became  the  duchess,  and,  of  course,  paid  all  his  debts.  In  fact, 
she  paid  the  debts  before  she  became  the  duchess,  because  she  wore  me 
on  her  wedding  day.  She  paid  up  the  banker  who  had  loaned  money 
on  me,  and  then  I  remember  she  went  to  an  undertaking  establishment 
and  paid  there  the  funeral  bill  of  her  husband's  last  sweetheart.  I  knew 
that  the  duke  would  not  get  on  with  his  wife.  They  had  awful  rows. 
All  about  money.  And  one  day  she  packed  up  everything  of  value, 
including  myself,  and  left  for  America.  She  wore  me  very  much  and 
I  really  was  admired  by  her  friends. 

"During  a  reception  some  one  told  her  that  if  she  would  put  all  her 
money  in  'Bethlehem  Steel'  she  could  increase  her  income  fabulously. 
She  complained  that  she  hadn't  enough  cash  on  hand  to  go  into  any 
speculation.  That  was  in  1914.  'But  you  have  your  pearls.  Why  not 
pawn  them?  The  money  will  bring  you  400  per  cent,  interest  a  year, 
and  the  pawnbroker  will  charge  you  only  20.'  That's  why  I  am  here 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  11 

for  the  last  five  years.  She  pays  her  interest  regularly,  and  I  don't 
doubt  that  one  of  these  days  she'll  sell  her  stock  and  take  me  back  home. 
People  here  lack  reverence  of  tradition.  Imagine,  to  pawn  one's  family 
jewels  in  order  to  make  money!  Oh,  how  I  do  wish  I  were  back  in 
England.  Where  jewels  such  as  myself  are  family  heirlooms.  I  was 
born  an  aristocrat,  brought  up  among  aristocrats,  and  I  can't  get  used  to 
your  democratic  ways." 

"I  like  your  nerve,"  interrupted  the  Alderman's  badge,  a  big  golden 
star  with  many  sparkling  diamonds,  that  had  been  given  to  the  Tam 
many  Hall  district  leader  by  his  admiring  voters.  "What  do  pou  know 
about  democracy?  My  master  was  a  Democrat  for  years,  in  fact,  he 
got  me  because  he  was  a  Democrat,  and  I  love  the  ways  of  democracy. 
Now  he  is  in  disgrace.  He  had  a  scrap  with  the  big  chief  and  so  they 
cut  off  his  graft  and  he  is  down  and  out.  I  was  the  last  thing  of  value 
he  had.  I  was  given  him  in  1912.  The  same  year  they  cleaned  up  vice 
in  New  York.  He  did  his  best  for  the  saloon  keepers  of  his  district. 
It  kept  him  on  the  jump  from  night  till  morning,  believe  me.  The  police 
lost  their  head;  places  were  raided  everywhere.  Pull  or  no  pull,  the 
cops  got  scared  and  pinched  places  that  had  never  before  been  molested. 
My  master  helped  his  friends.  He  always  did.  Right  or  wrong,  he 
stuck  to  them.  And  so,  after  the  scare  was  over,  and  things  settled 
down  again  to  normal  conditions,  they  chipped  in  and  bought  him  the 
badge.  He  got  $400  on  me.  He's  going  to  come  to  the  top  again,  and 
by  golly!  I'll  be  proud  of  the  day  when  he  pins  me  for  the  first  time 
on  his  coat.  It  won't  be  long  either.  The  district  ball  is  on  St.  Pat 
rick's  Day  and  I  will  as  surely  be  on  his  breast  on  that  day,  as  my 
master's  colors  are  green.  See!  that's  democracy,  you  poor  aristocrat! 
Ups  and  downs,  but  in  the  end,  you  come  out  on  top." 

The  pearl  necklace  was  not  the  only  one  shocked  by  the  outburst  of 
the  professional  politician's  honor  badge.  A  croix  de  guerre  raised  itself 
to  its  full  height:  "Don't  profane  the  sacred  word  'democracy.*  The 
brave  lad  whom  I  am  proud  to  call  master  received  me  because  of  his 
daring  deeds,  that  made  the  'world  safe  for  democracy.'  He  left  his 
wife  at  home,  his  little  kids,  too.  He  gave  up  a  position  offering  him 
a  promising  career  and  followed  the  call  of  democracy.  What  dread 
ful  privations  he  had  to  endure — hunger,  thirst,  a  hateful  life — but  in 
the  end  the  foe  was  conquered,  and  my  master  did  his  share.  The 
French  Government  decorated  the  brave  American  democrat,  who  joined 
President  Wilson's  fight  for  the  famous  fourteen  points. 

"Shut  up,"  screamed  the  cheap  little  stickpin,  that  couldn't  be 
worth  more  than  a  dollar  or  two,  out  of  a  heap  of  similarly  worthless 
jewelry.  "Don't  mention  your  precious  fourteen  points  again,  and  your 


12  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

Wilson  democracy.  What  are  you  here  for?  Why  don't  you  adorn 
the  chest  of  your  hero?  Where  is  he  now?  I'll  tell  you  where  he  is: 
sitting  on  some  park  bench,  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  another  miserable 
day.  His  landlord  dispossessed  his  wife  and  children  while  he  was  mak 
ing  democracy  safe,  in  Europe;  his  job  has  been  given  to  a  woman  who 
works  for  a  hundred  dollars  a  year  less,  and  he  is  tramping  the  streets 
looking  for  work.  He  held  on  to  you  until  the  very  last,  then  he 
pawned  you  for  a  dollar  and  a  half." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  you  say,"  replied  the  croix 
de  guerre.  "My  master  met  with  bad  luck  when  he  returned  to  America, 
but  he  is  too  much  of  a  patriot  to  blame  anybody  else  for  his  misfortune 
than  himself.  He  don't  seem  physically  fit  to  do  hard  work,  and  he 
is  too  just  to  think  that  people  will  employ  him  when  they  can  get 
stronger  and  fitter  men.  But  who  might  you  come  from?  You  sound 
like  a  Bolsheviki." 

"My  master  is  in  jail,  which  accounts  for  my  being  here.  His 
friends  found  me  in  his  tie,  pawned  me,  bought  some  tobacco  for  the 
money  they  got  for  me,  and  sent  him  the  tobacco.  I  wonder  if  he  got  it? 
He  is  a  conscientious  objector.  I  was  in  jail  with  him  at  the  time  they 
arrested  him.  I  think  he  accused  some  magistrate  or  somebody  of  being 
a  fool.  They  arrested  him  and  in  court  it  came  out  that  his  conscience 
objected  to  killing  people,  war  or  no  war.  He  also  said  that  we  ought 
to  love  each  other,  and  that  most  of  the  people  tried  to  get  the  best  of 
their  fellow  men.  And  many  other  things.  The  District  Attorney  made 
out  that  he  was  a  "red"  and  dangerous  to  democracy,  and  they  sent  him 
to  jail.  For  twenty  years.  He  had  been  a  student  in  a  theological 
seminary,  a  nice  sort  of  man.  So  gentle!  ;  I  could  feel  his  gentleness 
each  time  he  put  me  in  his  tie  in  the  morning  and  took  me  out  again  in 
the  evening.  Your  proud  wearer  of  a  war  cross  will  get  arrested  one 
of  these  days  for  vagrancy,  then  he  will  be  in  jail,  too.  Democracy  or 
no  democracy." 

"Oh,  this  dreadful  war,"  said  the  little  amethyst  ring,  with  a  timid 
thin  voice.  "Much  has  happened  to  me  in  two  years."  A  little  rose  was 
engraved  on  the  surface  of  the  amethyst,  and  the  ring  looked  very  deli 
cate.  "I  had  gone  through  many  hands  and  lay  for  years,  unobserved, 
in  a  little  jewelry  shop.  One  evening  a  girl  bought  me,  and  gave  me 
to  her  sweetheart,  who  was  about  to  depart  for  France.  He  was  a  sol 
dier.  He  wore  me  on  his  little  finger.  How  weary  were  his  hands  in 
camp  during  training  time!  I  pitied  him  so  often,  on  stormy  nights  on 
the  Russian  border.  How  often  we  thought  we  should  never  survive. 
But  we  did.  Trenches,  attacks,  over  the  top,  dangerous  patrols,  several 
times  captured,  we  always  got  away.  Until  one  night  in  Flanders.  We 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  13 

had  been  very  happy  because  his  sweetheart  had  written  to  him.  One  of 
those  long  letters  he  carried  in  his  tobacco-pouch.  A  bullet  killed  him 
and  we  lay,  forgotten,  several  days,  until  they  found  us.  They  put  me, 
together  with  his  watch,  in  a  little  envelope.  I  went  from  office  to 
office,  from  safe  to  safe.  They  sent  me  across  the  water  to  his  mother. 
She  recognized  the  watch,  but  not  me.  She  had  never  seen  me,  knew 
nothing  of  her  son's  sweetheart.  One  day  she  brought  me  down  here.  I 
often  wonder  if  the  little  sweetheart  knows  he  is  dead.  I  know  I'll  never 
see  her  again.  That's  how  it  is  with  us.  We  are  bought  as  tokens  of 
faith  and  sold  because  of  adverse  fate,  and  rarely  do  we  see  again  the 
people  who  bought  and  sold  us." 

There  was  silence  in  the  safe  for  several  minutes.  Melancholy  looks 
passed  from  jewel  to  jewel.  They  all  seemed  sad  and  pensive. 

The  safe  spoke  finally.  "Things  surely  have  changed,  and  I  am 
glad  that  I  am  not  in  pawn  like  you." 

"Gloat  over  our  misfortune!"  rang  out  the  clear  voice  of  a  wedding 
ring.  "You  are  the  jailer,  and  you  know  it,  and  your  master  is  the 
worst  of  all  of  them.  He  cracks  the  whip  over  our  masters  who  have 
to  pay  his  blood  money.  Don't  you  see  how  he  is  profiting  because  of 
our  masters'  mistakes  and  misfortunes?  Don't  tell  me  that  he  is  their 
friend  and  helper  who  gives  them  money  in  time  of  need,  when  no  one 
else  is  willing  to  come  to  their  rescue.  I  know  all  about  your  old  pawn 
broker  who  is  sitting  here  for  one  hundred  and  seven  years,  lending  half 
of  our  actual  value  and  receiving  thirty-six  per  cent,  for  his  kindness  to 
humanity.  On  the  day  that  my  mistress  handed  me  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  to  her  husband,  I  heard  him  say  several  things  that  seem  to  be  true, 
after  listening  to  all  your  stories.  I  had  been  on  her  finger  ever  since 
the  day  she  had  been  married.  Next  to  me  was  a  sparkling  diamond. 
That  was  the  engagement  ring.  One  day,  after  breakfast,  the  husband 
lingered  over  his  cup  of  coffee,  though  he  wouldn't  dare  to  speak.  AH 
at  once  she  took  off  the  diamond  ring  from  her  finger  and  handed  it  to 
him.  'Take  it,  dear,'  she  said,  'and  pawn  it.  That  ought  to  pay  our 
rent  and  keep  us  going  for  awhile.'  He  took  it  with  a  heavy  heart.  I 
remember  what  he  said:  'That's  the  curse  of  a  poor  man  and  of  our 
system  of  banking.  If  I  had  real  estate  and  had  been  in  the  same  finan 
cial  straights  as  I  am  now,  I'd  go  to  the  banker  and  he  would  lend  me 
money  on  my  home.  He'd  give  me  a  mortgage  which  would  protect  me 
against  being  swindled.  If  I  don't  pay  interest  or  capital,  common  law 
compels  him  to  give  me  due  notice,  and  time  of  grace.  In  case  of  fire 
or  accident,  insurance  policies  cover  the  loss.  In  the  meantime,  my  wife 
could  enjoy  the  possession  of  her  home  and  live  on  in  comfort  as  before. 
The  interest  the  bank  would  charge  me  would  not  be  more  than  eight 


14  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

or  nine  per  cent,  a  year.  But  I  have  no  real  estate.  AH  we  have  is 
movable  property.  I  am  out  of  work,  in  bad  luck.  I  have  to  pawn 
your  engagement  ring.  The  pawnbroker  is  going  to  give  me  two-thirds 
of  the  value.  You  will  miss  your  ring,  which  he  will  keep  in  his  pos 
session.  I  will  not  get  a  mortgage  in  which  my  property  is  specified, 
but  a  pawn  ticket  that  reads:  "A  diamond  ring,  $220.00."  If  the  pawn 
broker  is  a  crook  he  can  change  the  stone.  In  case  of  fire  and  accident 
I  am  not  protected.  He  is  not  compelled  by  law  to  notify  me  when  the 
pawn  will  be  forfeited.  If  I  am  sick  and  don't  show  up  on  the  last 
day  he  is  going  to  sell  my  property.  It  isn't  respectable  to  go  to  a  pawn 
broker's  shop,  but  highly  creditable  to  borrow  from  a  bank.  Our  neigh 
bors  will  miss  your  diamond  ring.  It  will  embarrass  you.  And  for  all 
this  humiliation  I  have  to  pay  three  per  cent,  a  month  to  this  banker  of 
the  poor.' 

"That's  what  my  master  said,"  continued  the  wedding  ring.  "Ever 
since  he's  paying  interest  on  the  diamond  ring,  three  per  cent,  each  month, 
and  in  order  to  pay  last  month's  interest  he  had  to  pawn  his  wife's 
wedding  ring. 

"And  you  big,  fat  safe,  taking  us  in,  seeing  us  go  out  again,  try 
ing  to  tell  us  that  you  know  the  everyday  tragedies  and  miseries  of  our 
masters.  Some  day  they'll  lose  their  respect  for  your  grave  protected 
jaws  and  your  burglar  alarms,  and  then  they'll  storm  you  and  take  what's 
theirs,  and  they  won't  pay  you  any  interest,  either." 

"What  a  dreadful  smell,"  said  the  wrist-watch,  rather  annoyed  by 
the  loud  and  vulgar  talk  of  the  wedding  ring.  "They  used  to  take 
their  overcoats  out  of  here  in  the  fall.  They  must  have  forgotten  them 
this  year,  and  the  moth-balls  make  me  ill.  Isn't  it  cold  enough  for 
overcoats?  Oh,  dear,  why  don't  they  call  for  them?" 

"It's  insolent,  I  tell  you.  Insolent!"  screeched  the  signet  ring,  with 
the  pompous  crest  engraved  on  its  face,  excitedly.  "This  wedding  ring 
with  his  insane  revolutionary  ideas. 

"I  don't  know!"  "I  don't  know!"  "There  seems  to  be  lots  of  truth 
in  it."  "Of  course,  the  wedding  ring  spoke  rather  excitedly,  made  a 
good  many  overstatements,"  exclaimed  many  voices,  here  and  there. 
Many  more  pawns  joined  in  the  murmur;  the  noise  grew  louder  and 
louder.  The  safe  that  had  regained  its  composure  made  vain  efforts  to 
pacify  them.  A  few  dinner  rings,  and  jewelled  earrings  lent  their  sup 
port  to  the  safe. 

Hundreds  of  threatening  voices  seemed  to  try  uniting  into  one  har 
monious  cry.  .  .  . 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  15 

.  .  .  The  town  hall  clock  struck  one.  All  voices  ceased.  The  safe 
was  black,  and  heavy,  and  massive.  The  pawns  lay  in  it  in  neat  rows, 
carefully  numbered.  One  electric  bulb  diffused  an  insufficient  but 
steady  light.  .The  burglar  alarm  was  in  it*  place  at  the  window  panes. 
Another  long  year  of  silence.  .  .  . 


16  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

Tragedy  in  a  Birdhouse 

HE  was  pearl-gray.  He  had  white  wing-feathers  and  he  carried 
his  head  like  a  king.  His  feet  were  purple  and  the  cream- 
colored  down  on  his  legs  resembled  silk  stockings  of  a  page  proud 
to  bear  the  train  of  his  mistress.  His  eyes  were  red-brown.  They  gazed 
disgustedly  at  a  flock  of  sparrows  that  had  forced  themselves  into  the 
birdhouse  and  had  begun  to  pick  up  the  yellow  corn  that  lay  on  the 
pale  gold  of  the  gravel. 

"Enjoy  yourselves,  you  vagabonds!"  he  cried.  His  voice  was 
scornful  but  sad.  "It  must  be  dreadful  to  live  outside  where  it  is  so 
dusty  and  where  men  with  great  brooms  are  always  sweeping  you  aside. 
But  how  greedy  you  are!  Always  eating  and  eating  and  paying  no 
attention  to  the  beautiful  scenery  that  they  have  built  for  me  here  and 
the  little  lake  as  real  as  life  where  I  can  bathe  to  my  heart's  content. 
Plebeians!  First  you  stuff  yourselves  and  then  you  creep  away  and 
sleep  and  sleep  until  you  are  hungry  again." 

And  the  pearl-gray  bird  moved  his  wings  up  and  down  like  a 
dainty  blonde  coquette  that  smooths  not  existing  wrinkles  out  of  her 
gown,  looks  at  her  hands  and  thinks:  "What  beautiful  hands  I  have!" 

Meanwhile  the  sparrows  hopped  about  on  the  sand  and  helped 
themselves  to  the  tidbits  generously.  A  small  dark  rogue  with  a  white 
spot  on  his  breast  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  brown  little  lady  that  very  bodly 
kept  within  speaking  distance  of  him.  He  chirped  to  her  right  gayly 
and  encouraged  her  to  come  nearer.  If  she  appeared  to  be  indifferent, 
he  made  signs  that  she  would  be  very  welcome.  At  last  she  approached 
him  very  shyly.  But  the  nearer  she  came,  the  more  animated  she  grew 
and  soon  had  progressed  as  far  as  a  great  crust  of  bread  that  lay  be 
tween  them.  The  sparrow  had  been  watching  his  sweetheart  with  pride 
and  joy  and  now  he  was  struck  with  a  daring  thought. 

"Suppose  we  both  took  hold  of  this  piece  of  bread,"  he  said,  "you 
on  one  side  and  I  on  the  other  and  we  carried  it  over  there — you  know 
where — under  the  roof  of  the  white  house  with  many  statues." 

She  appeared  to  take  the  matter  into  consideration.  She  knew 
exactly  what  the  bold  fellow  meant.  They  had  often  sat  on  a  perch 
there  together  and  he  had  talked  about  love  and  had  stroked  her  wing 
feathers  with  his  bill,  very  tenderly.  And  she  had  made  no  objections. 
She  knew  they  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  and  that  each  was 
thinking  of  building  a  nest.  Both  wanted  to  set  up  housekeeping  right 
there  where  they  had  acknowledged  their  love  and  had  had  such  happy 
times. 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  17 

The  ardent  lover  grew  more  and  more  determined.  He  took  hold 
of  the  crust  and  jerked  it  here  and  there  so  vigorously  that  he  raised  a 
littl  storm  of  crumbs  and  dust. 

"How  strong  he  is,"  thought  the  little  lady.  And  she  noticed  with 
satisfaction  that  the  performance  was  being  watched  by  other  feathered 
folk.  What  she  really  wanted  to  do  was  to  hop  up  to  him- — quite  close 
to  him — and  lay  her  head  on  the  white  spot  on  his  breast.  But  that  was 
a  thing  that  really  ought  not  to  be  done  in  public.  So  she  only  looked 
at  him  meaningly  and  took  hold  of  the  crust  in  a  very  determined 
fashion. 

Then  they  flew  with  it  a  little  way  just  to  show  that  they  had  not 
undertaken  too  much  together.  And  they  got  on  very  well  with  it.  They 
stopped  to  take  breath  and  the  sparrow  deeply  impressed  with  a  sense 
of  responsibility  of  which  he  had  never  dreamed,  said: 

"Now  we  have  enough  provisions  for  the  first  few  days.  And  there 
is  still  plenty  of  water  in  the  troughs  under  the  eaves  left  from  the  last 
rain  so  we  need  not  worry  about  our  living  while  we  are  building  our 
nest.  I  know  also  where  there  is  a  stable  filled  with  sweet-scented  hay 
and  in  the  window  of  an  old  house  there  lies  every  morning  a  beautiful 
eider  bolster  from  which  we  can  take  down  to  make  a  soft  bed." 

"Oh,  look  at  the  lovers!  Just  see  the  lovers!"  shrilled  all  the  other 
sparrows  in  chorus.  Then  they  hopped  about  excitedly,  jostling  one  an 
other.  For  this  was  a  real  event  in  such  a  quiet  community. 

The  beautiful  bird  with  the  purple  feet  had  left  off  polishing  his 
toes,  watching  the  carrying  on  of  the  sweethearts.  "What  a  great  fuss 
they  are  making  over  a  piece  of  bread!"  he  thought. 

And  then  with  a  bored  expression  he  gazed  at  the  other  sparrows 
that  were  picking  up  from  the  ground  the  scattered  grains  and  crumbs. 
He  began  to  think  about  the  nest  of  which  the  pair  had  spoken.  What 
might  it  look  like?  And  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  anything  out  there  behind  the  iron  netting  of  the  birdhouse.  Should 
he  ask  the  chattering  sparrows?  That  would  certainly  be  the  simplest 
thing  to  do.  But  .  .  .  speak  with  them!  No!  Better  perish  with 
curiosity!  One  ought  not  to  ask  questions  of  beggars  that  eat  the  crumbs 
in  the  gravel.  • 

"Out  with  you,  you  silly  mob!"  he  croaked  in  such  a  disagreeable 
voice  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  it  could  come  from  such  a  beauti 
ful  bird.  Then  he  spread  his  wonderful  wings  and  swung  them  as  if 
he  would  fan  away  the  brown- feathered  host.  There  was  a  loud  chirp 
ing  either  in  anger  or  fear  and  swish — swish — they  flew  straight  through 
the  netting  to  the  trees  in  the  hedge,  yonder  in  the  mysterious  land  outside. 


18  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIED 

"They  are  growing  quite  impudent,"  observed  the  yellow  pelican, 
passing  by.  And  he  sniffed  with  his  long  bill  at  the  edge  of  the  little 
pond  built  in  the  plot  covered  with  smooth  pebble  stones.  It  seemed  quite 
convenient  to  the  gray  bird  who  was  not  really  so  bad  at  heart  after  all 
and  who  was  terribly  lonely  and  sad,  that  the  pelican  who  always  ap 
peared  so  stupid,  was  in  a  talkative  mood. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Pelican,"  he  said,  "you  are  wiser  than  I  and  know 
a  great  deal  more  about  things  than  I  because  you  are  very  much  older. 
What  is  there  outside  behind  the  wire  netting  from  which  poor  little  birds 
come  and  where  there  are  such  strange  things?  And  what  is  a  nest? 
All  the  creatures  kept  teasing  two  little  sparrows  that  wanted  to  build 
a  nest." 

The  pelican  shook  his  head  thoughtfully  for  a  while  and  then 
whetted  his  bill  on  a  stone.  He  drew  one  of  his  legs  out  of  sight  and 
looked  critically  at  his  dainty  gray  companion. 

"You  were  born  in  this  place  and  you  are  very  young,"  he  began, 
"and  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  destroy  your  peace  of  mind  by  enlighten 
ing  you.  But  I  feel  so  lonesome  to-day  that  it  will  do  me  good  to  talk 
to  you. 

"Far,  far  from  here  there  is  a  lake  a  million  times  bigger  than  this 
wretched  puddle  arranged  here  for  my  bath.  Over  this  lake  arches  a 
wide  sky  across  which  hurry  white  clouds  filled  with  the  most  refreshing 
crystal  clear  rain  drops.  All  around  this  lake  grow  green  trees  and 
reeds.  Further  out  are  stretches  of  meadow  where  the  lushest  of  grasses 
are  to  be  found.  You  really  ought  to  have  lived  there  in  order  to  be 
able  to  picture  it. 

"In  the  thickest  of  reeds,  quite  close  to  the  water,  my  parents  had 
a  nest.  Oh,  you  asked  just  now  what  a  nest  is!  A  nest  is  a  comfort 
able  little  house  that  looks  very  much  like  the  house  they  built  here 
for  us.  But  it  is  really  very  different.  And  one  could  not  speak  of  a 
nest  as  if  it  had  been  ordered,  paid  for  and  delivered.  My  father  and 
mother  were  quite  young  when  they  first  met  each  other.  They  were 
beautiful  white  birds  with  broad  bands  of  yellow  in  their  wings.  They 
dove  deep  into  the  water,  chased  each  other  across  the  broad  meadows 
and  played  games  high  in  the  air.  Then  they  would  go  hunting  and 
bring  back  fruit  and  little  fishes  and  my  father  always  carried  to  mother 
the  best  of  what  he  found.  And  these  were  his  happiest  hours  when 
he  saw  how  good  the  thing  tasted  that  he  had  brought. 

"And  then  one  day  it  occurred  to  them  how  pleasant  it  would  be 
if  they  did  not  have  to  separate  in  the  evening  and  each  go  to  a  dif 
ferent  home.  So  they  decided  to  build  themselves  a  nest. 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  19 

"I  remember  how  my  mother  was  accustomed  to  speak  of  it.  Each 
piece  of  reed  that  they  fetched  in  their  bills  was  admired  and  then  laid 
Carefully  in  just  the  right  place.  And  when  everything  was  ready  father 
dove  deep  in  the  lake — and  that  was  at  the  risk  of  his  life  for  he  had 
to  make  the  plunge  headfirst — and  tore  away  a  whole  bushel  of  seaweed 
and  lined  the  nest  with  it  to  make  a  soft  bed  for  my  mother.  And  then 
they  moved  in  there  and  were  happy!  During  the  day  they  romped  in 
the  water  and  scurried  about  for  food,  sharing  the  tidbits.  Sometimes 
father  had  bad  luck  and  then  mother  was  very  proud  to  be  able  to  give 
him  something  from  her  store  or  catch. 

"And  then  mother  had  to  remain  at  home  and  father  always  kept 
coming  with  something  good  in  his  bill.  One  day  I  was  born.  How 
both  of  them  caressed  me  and  how  proud  mother  and  father  were." 

Tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  pelican  and  ran  in  great  drops 
down  to  the  yellow  sand.  He  could  not  speak  for  a  while,  he  was  so 
deeply  moved. 

"One  morning,"  he  continued,  a  soft  sob  choking  his  voice,  "I  was 
separated  from  my  parents  and  my  home.  The  sun  shone  bright  in  the 
sky,  the  air  was  clear  and  fresh  and  the  lake  lay  peaceful  there  as 
smooth  as  glass  and  glittering  silvery  like  a  mirror.  I  thought  I  would 
venture  out  to  find  something  to  eat  for  myself.  I  went  to  the  green, 
lonely  meadow.  Then  suddenly  I  saw  some  great  thin  thing  coming  to 
ward  me.  I  did  not  know  at  that  time  that  there  were  such  things  as 
men  that  were  mightier  than  we  and  who  could  catch  us.  Father  and 
mother  had  not  explained  that  to  me,  doubtless  out  of  a  desire  to  pre 
serve  my  childish  innocence.  Suddenly,  however,  I  felt  myself  violently 
seized  from  behind  and  I  lost  consciousness. 

"When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  in  a  little  cage  and  later  they 
brought  me  here.  That  was  years  ago  and  I  have  continued  to  remain 
here  and  grown  accustomed  to  everything  and  only  on  days  like  this  when 
the  sun  is  hidden  by  clouds  and  I  know  that  it  is  shining  away  off  there 
on  my  meadows  and  on  my  like  I  find  myself  very  homesick. 

"It  is  true  that  I  have  everything  that  I  need.  I  do  not  have  to 
think  of  food.  I  do  not  have  to  battle  with  the  wild  elements  and  have 
nothing  to  fear  from  the  raging  storms.  But  my  wings  are  lame  and  my 
eyes  are  weak  and  I  would  prefer  to  be  one  of  the  little  sparrows  that 
come  here  to  steal  the  crumbs." 

The  pelican  stood  there  pensive.  He  slowly  stretched  out  the  leg 
that  had  been  drawn  up  and  pointed  his  bill  in  the  opposite  direction. 
"But,  Mr.  Pelican,"  answered  the  little  gray  bird  who  had  listened 
eagerly  to  the  recital,  "why  couldn't  we  build  a  nest  even  here?  Haven't 


20  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

you  Mrs.  Pelican?  And  think  of  the  beautiful  little  pelicans  that  you 
had  last  summer  and  that  were  taken  away!" 

"Yes,  we  can  build  nests.  We  have  to  build  nests,"  the  pelican 
said  over  his  shoulder  in  a  bitter  tone.  "Even  you  will  build  one.  And 
they  will  bring  you  a  mate  and  you  must  suffer  it- — do  you  hear?  You 
must  suffer  it!  And  when  you  have  children  they  will  let  you  keep 
them  while  they  are  little  and  helpless  and  then  they  will  take  them  from 
you  and  use  them  for  other  purposes." 

The  pelican  walked  solemnly  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  bird- 
house  where  his  wife  was  lying  and  fell  asleep. 

The  gray  bird  had  grown  serious.  He  looked  up  at  the  iron  meshes 
of  the  cage.  He  thought  of  the  little  sparrow  that  was  building  a  nest 
somewhere  and  he  wondered  what  the  little  mate  would  look  like  that 
they  were  going  to  bring  to  him.  Then  he  felt  a  sharp  pain — the  anguish 
of  a  longing  that  he  had  never  before  experienced.  He  felt  disgust  and 
loathing  for  the  puddle  of  water  and  for  the  yellow  gravel  and  the  pelican 
and  the  other  birds  that  lived  in  the  house  with  him. 

And  he  wanted  to  go  away.  Far  away  where  there  were  soft 
grasses  and  broad  lakes  and  where  the  water  was  clear  and  where  the 
sky  was  not  parceled  off  by  iron  netting.  He  wanted  to  fly  and  to 
bathe  in  a  lake  and  to  dive  into  deep  water,  head  first,  and  to  tear  away 
seaweed.  .  .  . 

And  he  wanted  to  build  a  nest. 

Summoning  all  his  strength,  he  lifted  himself  as  high  as  possible. 
He  was  frightened  when  he  felt  himself  hovering  in  mid  air  and  strik 
ing  against  the  iron  meshes  of  the  bird  house. 

"Sometime  I  am  going  to  beat  against  the  iron  barriers  with  such 
force,"  he  determined,  "that  they  will  break  and  I  shall  fly  away." 

And  he  made  this  decision  after  he  had  flown  to  the  top  of  the 
cage  two  or  three  times  had  collided  with  the  iron  netting  suffering  great 
pain. 

The  other  birds,  however,  who  had  cuddled  up  comfortably  in  their 
favorite  corners  awaiting  the  oncoming  of  the  night,  whispered  to  each 
other:  "He  must  have  become  blind.  Else  he  would  have  seen  the 
netting." 

Others  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  said:     "He  is  crazy." 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  21 

A  Woman's  Revenge 

THE   thin   shadows  of   the  dying  day   groped  in  hungry  waves  into 
the   room.     Their  pointed   tongues   reached   after  the  color  of   the 
pictures   and   the   glitter   of   the   polished   furniture.     The   bevelled 
edges  of  the  mirror  gleamed  steel  blue  and  reflected  the  moving  shadows 
of  the  wall  ghostly  long  and  distorted. 

A  table  with  bric-a-brac  seemed  a  miniature  graveyard  with  tomb 
stones  and  monuments  and  hovering  clouds  above.  The  slender  pine 
trees  out  the  window  and  the  dark  heavens  with  the  yellow  shimmer  of 
the  departing  sun,  suggested  a  fantastic  painting  by  some  Japanese  artist. 

She  stood  at  the  window.  She  pressed  her  forehead  against  the 
glass  till  it  became  clouded  from  her  breath  and  she  looked  at  the  sky. 
She  observed  how  the  deep  yellow  of  the  farthest  horizon  changed  into 
a  violet  gray,  how  it  was  losing  constantly  its  color;  how  the  oncoming 
darkness  defined  itself;  and  the  clear  deep  blue  of  the  heavens  stood  out 
creating  for  the  constellations  a  fabulous  Oriental  background 
And  the  evening  star  blazed  up  and  sparkled  like  a  solitary  diamond  in 
the  black  hair  of  a  beautiful  woman.  She  observed  hurrying  mists  like 
zealous  couriers  rushing  hither  and  thither,  and  she  waited  until  a  great 
misshapen  cloud  that  had  completely  covered  the  entire  picture  swept 
away  and  was  gone. 

She  listened  to  the  murmuring  voices  of  the  physicians  in  the  next 
room  where  her  husband  lay  dying.  She  felt  that  they  were  consulting 
together  how  to  break  the  truth  to  her  as  gently  as  possible.  The  little 
watch  in  her  girdle  ticked  on  and  the  beat  of  each  second  meant  to  her 
a  step  nearer  the  realization  of  her  one  desire — nearer  the  moment  for 
which  she  had  been  longing  a  lifetime. 

Often  at  night,  lying  in  bed,  she  had  folded  her  hands  like  a  pious 
child  and  had  prayed:  "Dear  God!  Let  me  be  with  him  in  his  last 
hour  and  let  me  reckon  with  him!" 

It  had  happened  just  as  she  had  imagined  it  would  in  her  torment 
ing  dreams.  He  lay  in  the  next  room  wounded  to  death  by  one  of  the 
many  husbands  that  he  had  betrayed.  And  again  she  folded  her  hands 
and  prayed:  "Let  me  reckon  with  him,  Oh  Lord!  Don't  let  him  die 
without  my  telling  everything!  Let  me  tell  him  how  I  hate  him!" 

"I  hate  him,  I  hate  him,"  thrilled  every  nerve  of  her  excited  brain. 
Her  ears  listened  enviously  for  the  sound  of  steps  in  the  next  room  and 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door  knob  which  would  turn  before  they  could 
come  out.  Would  she  be  able  to  speak  to  him — to  the  man  that  had 
destroyed  her  body,  that  had  tormented  her  soul,  that  in  every  act  of 
his  life  had  offended  her?  Would  he  regain  consciousness  if  only  for 


22  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

a  little  while?  Yes!  Yes!  ...  He  must!  It  would  be  too  ter 
rible;  she  had  waited  a  lifetime  for  just  this  moment.  She  knew  what 
she  was  going  to  say.  In  many  sleepless  nights  she  had  rehearsed  it; 
like  a  part  in  a  play  she  had  repeated  it  over  and  over  again.  And 
she  hated  him!  A  thousand  times  more  than  she  had  ever  loved  him. 
And  how  she  had  loved  him! 

She  was  ashamed  of  this  love  and  her  hate  and  the  consciousness  of 
her  rejected  devotion  mounted  to  fury. 

The  physicians  had  pressed  her  hand,  had  spoken  to  her  in  a  quiet, 
professional  way.  The  door  stood  open.  She  crossed  the  threshold. 
She  closed  the  door  behind  her.  She  thrust  the  portiere  aside. 

The  clear  light  of  the  five-branched  chandelier  flooded  peacefully 
over  the  white  bed.  The  Smyrna  carpet  that  served  as  a  plumeau 
softened  the  severity  of  the  linen  sheet. 

The  long,  high-bred  fingers  of  his  blue-veined  hands  played  with 
the  knotted  fringe  of  the  rug.  He  raised  his  head  from  the  pillow;  she 
saw  how  he  tried  to  hide  the  signs  of  acute  suffering.  He  even  forced 
himself  to  smile  and  nodded  to  her.  "Come!  Come  nearer  to  me,"  he 
breathed,  scarcely  audibly. 

He  was  conscious! 

She  could  speak!  The  lines  about  his  eyes  that  had  always  fasci 
nated  her  were  more  strongly  marked  than  ever.  He  was  very  hand 
some.  She  looked  away,  up  to  the  white  ceiling. 

"For  the  others  he  had  had  love.  For  her  indifferent  aloofness, 
polite  rejection  .  .  ." 

She  stepped  nearer  to  the  bed.  She  did  not  see  the  hand  extended 
to  her.  She  looked  straight  in  his  eyes. 

He  drew  back  as  the  helpless  one  does  when  he  gazes  in  the  eyes 
of  his  merciless,  determined  murderer. 

Her  voice  sounded  deep  and  quiet.  "You  are  dying.  You  know  it 
and  I  know  it.  We  have  been  married  ten  years.  Nine  years  we  have 
been  living  together  as  strangers.  You  have  taken  my  youth  and  destroyed 
my  faith  in  humanity.  You  have  made  me  poorer  and  more  pitiable 
than  the  beggar  on  the  street,  for  he  has  perhaps  somewhere  a  heart 
that  beats  with  love  for  him.  And  now  that  you  are  going — going  for 
ever — I  will  tell  you  how  I  hate  you. 

"I  despise  you  ...  I  loathe  you  .  .  .  Don't  speak!  I 
know  everything  and  I  have  known  everything  all  along.  I  could  name 
them  to  you,  one  by  one,  the  women  through  whom  you  have  shame 
lessly  betrayed  me.  There  was  the  wife  of  your  friend,  Hans.  There 
was  the  circus-rider  who  bore  you  a  child,  there  was  the  young  sales 
woman  who  because  of  you  drowned  herself,  there  was  my  chambermaid. 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  23 

I  discharged  her  and  you  settled  her  in  quarters  hired  with  my  money, 
the  money  on  which  you  lived  and  that  chained  you  to  me.  Then  came 
the  teacher.  She  was  the  only  one  for  whom  I  felt  any  sympathy.  She 
loved  you  honestly,  and  when  she  found  out  that  you  had  a  wife  at  home 
she  gave  you  up.  And  then  others  followed  in  motley,  quick  succession. 
You  took  whatever  crossed  your  path:  decent  women  that  suffered  for 
their  sin  all  their  lives  and  girls  whose  customer  you  were.  You  led 
astray  the  wives  of  your  friends  and  dishonored  the  daughters  of  your 
acquaintances. 

"And  now  Fate  has  overtaken  you  .  .  .  how  coarse  and  re 
lentless!  No  beauty  and  none  of  the  romance  that  you  always  loved 
and  for  which  you  lived.  Oh,  yes!  ...  I  know  that,  too!  The  last 
one — the  very  last!  The  beautiful  wife  of  a  motorman  attracted  you. 
You  overlooked  her  labor-hardened  hands  and  you  took  her.  And  for 
that  the  motorman  burst  open  your  head  with  his  crank.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
I  must  laugh,  must  laugh  at  your  prosaic  finish." 

Like  gloating  of  the  Furies  when  they  laugh  over  a  misfortune 
that  they  have  passed  and  done  with,  sounded  the  laugh  of  this  woman 
who  was  taking  revenge  for  nine  heart-breaking  years. 

Imperturbable  had  become  the  face  of  the  dying  man.  But  the 
more  excitably,  the  more  harshly,  the  more  maliciously  the  woman  spoke 
the  tenderer  and  the  more  loving  grew  his  look.  He  embraced  her  body 
with  his  eyes. 

He  saw  the  girdle  between  skirt  and  blouse,  the  watch  chain  with 
the  gold  locket  hanging  to  it.  He  had  given  it  to  her  during  their  honey 
moon.  His  picture  was  in  that  locket  and  half  of  a  four-leaved  clover. 

He  looked  in  her  eyes  ,in  the  wonderful,  deep  violet  eyes  that  were 
true,  so  true. 

What  he  had  not  known  for  years  he  realized  now:  "Mia!  Mia! 
I  have  loved  you  always.  You  did  not  understand  me.  You  did  not 
try  to  understand  me.  I  sought  forgetfulness  with  the  others.  I  drifted 
from  one  to  the  other.  I  was  always  searching  for  you  and  you  were 
lost  to  me.  Forgive  me  .  .  .  Mia!  .  .  .  Mia,  I  love  you  dear 
.  I  ...  always  loved  only  you 

"Harry,  you  lie!  Tell  me  that  you  are  lying!  God  in  heaven! 
Don't  go  from  me  with  a  lie  on  your  lips!  That  cannot  be  the  truth!" 

She  sobbed.  She  wept.  She  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and 
threw  her  arms  about  the  lifeless  body. 

A  soft  rain  beat  against  the  window  panes.  The  silver  scissors  and 
knives  that  lay  on  the  dressing  table  and  waited  in  vain  to  care  for  the 
hands  of  the  master  glittered  nobly.  The  blue  and  yellow  vials  on  the 
medicine  table  sparkled  like  oddly-cut  semi-precious  stones. 


24  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

The  quiet  of  an  unchangeable  misery  lay  over  every  object  in  the 
room. 

Soundless  tunes  of  an  unplayed  sonata  of  Beethoven  diffused 
through  the  air. 

A  woman  had  taken  revenge. 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  25 

Dead  Man's  Eyes 

EMPTY  bottles  cluttered  the  mantel.  Books,  newspapers  and  black 
bread  were  jumbled  together  on  a  chair  near  the  fireless  grate. 
Cigarette  stumps,  ashes  and  letters  covered  the  floor.  Two  gas- 
jets  beside  the  dresser  with  the  broken  looking-glass  lighted  the  big,  square 
room.  Three  walls  were  bare,  soot-stained  and  ugly.  The  one  against 
which  the  easel  leaned  was  covered  with  illustrations  from  magazines,  with 
color  prints  and  with  smeared  half-tone  sketches.  On  a  hook  in  the 
door  hung  a  man's  hat,  an  overcoat  and  some  men's  underwear. 

Maxim  Medak  sat  at  the  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
His  head  was  buried  in  his  hands. 

In  the  wooden  bed  which  showed  its  torn  straw  mattress  lay  a 
dead  man.  The  sheet  that  had  covered  the  body  was  dragged  aside. 
The  trunk  was  coarsely  bandaged.  The  bandages  were  stained  and 
stiffened  with  dried  blood.  The  head  had  fallen  to  one  side.  Trie  eyes 
stood  open.  They  were  glassy,  big,  blue  bulbs  opalescing  in  the  yellow 
light  of  the  gas.  Two  deep  wrinkles  leading  from  his  nostrils  to  the 
corners  of  his  graciously  curved  lips  made  him  look  serious  and  regretful. 
The  hair  was  black  and  close-cut.  The  ears  were  small  and  well-shaped. 
A  new  white  shirt  slit  through  the  center  of  the  back  lay  on  the  bed 
beside  the  corpse. 

The  man  at  the  table  lifted  his  head.  He  looked  at  the  corpse.  He 
looked  a  long  time.  He  approached  the  bed,  unsteadily  with  heavy 
feet.  He  lifted  the  body  and  took  up  the  shirt.  He  slipped  the  lifeless 
arms  into  the  sleeves  of  the  shirt.  The  head  of  the  dead  man  tilted  to 
the  other  side,  fell  back  and  the  staring  eyes  fastened  themselves  on  the 
ceiling. 

Medak  drew  the  sheet  up  over  the  bosom  and  shoulders  of  the  dead 
man  and  sat  on  the  bed  beside  him.  He  studied  the  quiet  face  before 
him  feature  by  feature,  trying  to  understand  what  had  happened. 

He  remembered  the  dreary,  foggy  October  afternoon  he  had  met 
him  on  the  bench  in  Madison  Square.  He  himself  was  homeless,  penni 
less.  The  other  one,  though  he  still  had  the  credit  of  his  landlord,  was 
not  much  better  off.  And  they  began  talking.  About  hard  luck,  about 
beauty,  about  freedom,  about  the  deserts  of  Ukraina.  They  sang  to 
gether  in  subdued  voices  the  long-forgotten,  melancholy  songs  of  their 
Cossack  ancestors.  Finally  it  had  grown  dark,  a  fine  rain  was  drizzling 
and  it  was  time  to  go  home.  He  came  home  with  the  stranger  and  since 
that  evening  they  had  lived  together  and  shared  whatever  they  had. 

And  one  day  Tomek  sold  a  picture.  He  himself  had  never  done 
anything  all  that  time,  but  Tomek  never  asked  him  a  question.  They 


26  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

sat  together  nights  and  days,  damning  life  and  women,  denying  God  and 
truth.  And  drinking.  Drinking  whiskey  and  rum.  And  one  day  their 
isolation  was  broken  by  a  blue-coated  mail-man  delivering  a  registered 
letter. 

Tomek  read  it.  He  was  very  quiet  for  hours  and  then  he  lold  the 
most  impossible  tales  of  his  Paris  life.  And  they  laughed  and  were 
hilariously  happy.  After  that  Tomek  went  out  and  bought  more  bottles. 
They  were  there  on  the  mantel,  empty. 

"Let  us  drink — drink  for  days,"  Tomek  had  said.  "Let  us  be 
senseless  and  sleep." 

And  they  drank.  At  first  absinthe  mixed  with  water.  And  then 
absinthe  straight.  And  then  whiskey  and  rum  again.  And  they  talked 
and  dozed  and  slept.  He  could  not  remember  how  many  days. 

When  he  v/oke  up  Tomek  was  sitting  in  the  chair  at  the  table,  hif 
head  resting  on  his  arms.  He  was  sobbing,  crying  like  a  child. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  said  after  looking  for  a  long  time  at  Medak,  and 
his  voice  was  the  saddest  voice  that  a  human  ever  used.  "We  all  are 
wrong.  There  is  truth.  And  there  is  love.  But  now  it  is  too  late." 

And  he  walked  over  to  the  bed  and  sank  down  on  it.  He  breathed 
heavily  for  awhile  and  everything  was  quiet.  They  both  must  have 
slept  again. 

The  next  Medak  remembered  was  the  discharge  of  a  gun.  It 
sounded  like  an  explosion  of  dynamite  in  the  closed  room.  The  bed 
was  soaked  with  blood.  A  lot  of  people  came  in.  A  physician  was 
called.  The  wound  was  washed  and  the  bandage  put  on,  but  no  one 
paid  any  attention  to  him  lying  on  the  mattress  in  the  other  corner  of 
the  room.  A  policeman  with  some  other  officers  came  in.  Tomek  raised 
up  in  bed  and  whispered  something  in  the  ear  of  the  policeman.  Then 
he  fell  back  dead. 

"Who  is  going  to  take  charge  of  the  body?"  some  one  asked. 
Medak  got  up.  He  showed  them  that  there  was  money  in  the  empty 
coffee  can.  He  told  them  he  was  going  to  watch  all  night  and  to 
morrow  order  a  burial. 

It  would  soon  be  to-morrow.  The  gas-light  had  already  begun  to 
look  lifeless.  Medak  staggered  over  to  the  washstand  and  poured  the 
water  over  his  head.  Then  he  turned  back  to  the  dead  man. 

He  passed  the  broken  looking-glass  and  stared  at  his  own  unshaven 
face  with  the  dark  rings  under  his  eyes.  Was  that  himself?  He  looked 
at  his  shirt  that  he  had  worn  for  days — ever  since  the  picture  was  sold. 
His  shoes  were  torn,  his  trousers  fringed.  What  had  he  done  yester 
day — last  week — all  those  long  months?  How  long  must  it  have  been? 
Four  years — impossible! 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  27 

But  surely  he  must  have  done  something  those  four  years.  He 
thought  and  thought.  But  there  was  nothing  he  could  remember.  Room 
ing  houses,  lodging  houses,  benches  in  the  parks,  cells  in  the  police  sta 
tions,  saloons  and  meeting  halls  and  talk.  Talk  and  talk  and  talk.  But 
didn't  they  want  to  make  the  world  better?  Didn't  they  want  to  destroy 
the  present  order  of  things?  .  .  .  The  present  order  of  things— these 
words  began  to  make  things  grow  clearer  in  his  mind.  He  shuddered. 

What  had  the  dead  man  said  before  he  threw  himself  down  on  the 
bed?  "There  is  ...  truth  and  love."  He  said  it  was  too  late. 
"There  is  truth  and  love,"  Medak  repeated  and  shuddered  again.  Was 
it  possible  that  he  had  been  mistaken?  He  never  doubted  that  there 
was  love.  But  was  there  truth?  For  four  years  he  had  told  himself 
"Everything  is  a  lie  and  she  is  the  worst  of  liars." 

He  looked  in  the  broken  mirror  again.  What  had  these  four  years 
made  of  a  man  full  of  ideals,  full  of  energy  and  who  knew  what  he 
wanted  and  why  he  wanted  it?  Was  it  too  late?  He  closed  his  eyes. 
He  saw  a  brilliantly  lighted  ballroom.  Hundreds  of  candles  reflected 
their  light  in  pendant  crystals  of  Venetian  glass.  He  saw  himself.  How 
different  he  looked!  And  he  saw  the  dark-haired  woman  and  the  other 
man.  He  saw  himself  asking  the  woman  a  question.  The  blood  flamed 
in  her  cheeks.  He  insisted  on  her  answering.  She  refused.  He  flung 
at  her  a  terrible  word  and  went  out  into  the  darkness.  He  left  the  city 
and  they  never  heard  from  him  again. 

"There  is  truth!"  He  could  not  forget  what  Tomek  had  said.  He 
turned  to  the  dead  man. 

"You  know  what  the  Cossacks  do  when  they  want  to  find  out  the 
truth?  They  go  into  the  dead  man's  chamber  and  pull  down  the  lids 
of  the  dead  man's  eyes  and  they  put  the  question  to  him.  You  know 
that,  Tomek.  You  have  heard  them  tell  it  in  the  evening  when  you 
were  a  boy  and  went  in  where  the  women  spin.  And  if  the  eyes  re 
main  closed  it  is  a  lie.  And  if  they  open  again  it  is  the  truth." 

He  went  to  the  bed.  He  drew  the  lids  down  over  the  big,  bulging 
eyeballs.  He  looked  at  the  placid  white  face. 

"Dead  men  do  not  lie,"  he  said.  His  voice  quaivered  and  his 
knees  shook.  At  last  he  was  to  know  if  there  is  truth  on  earth.  "Dead 
man,  tell  me  the  truth.  Was  she  guilty?  Was  I  right?  Did  she 
betray  me?" 

His  hands  fell  with  a  convulsive  grip  to  the  shoulders  of  the  dead 
man.  He  watched  the  eyes.  The  tenth  of  a  second  that  the  lids  re 
mained  motionless  was  a  long  stretch  of  years,  involving  crises,  intro 
ducing  epochs.  Then  they  began  slowly  to  open.  He  watched  them. 
They  rose  until  half  the  pupil  was  exposed.  They  glared  at  him — those 


28  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

sightless  eyeballs.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  motionless.  He  felt 
the  senseless  misery  of  four  years  engulf  him.  He  fought  with  it.  He 
had  only  one  weapon  in  his  struggle  to  regain  himself. 

She  was  innocent.     She  was  innocent. 

He  said  it  over  and  over  again,  each  time  realizing  it  more  and 
more.  Finally  he  became  calm.  His  body  lost  its  rigidity.  He  walked 
steadily  over  to  the  window  and  let  the  sweet  fresh  air  of  the  new 
born  day  drive  the  smell  of  lodoform  and  clotted  blood  from  the  room. 
He  turned  out  the  gas. 

Then  he  opened  Tomek's  trunk.  From  out  a  jumble  of  papers, 
cravats,  caps  and  soiled  handkerchiefs  in  the  top  tray  he  selected  the 
cleanest  collor.  In  the  bottom  of  the  trunk  he  found  decent  shoes,  a  well- 
made  suit  of  clothes  and  everything  that  he  needed.  He  fitted  a  blade 
to  Tomek's  razor  and  started  to  shave  himself  before  the  broken  looking- 
glass.  He  lathered  his  face  and  began  to  feel  like  a  human  again.  When 
one  side  of  his  face  was  clean  he  was  able  to  look  himself  straight  in  the 
eye.  And  he  saw  at  the  same  time  in  the  smaller  portion  of  the  broken 
mirror  the  image  of  Tomek  lying  dead  in  the  bed  with  the  sheet  pulled 
up  to  his  chin.  And  the  staring  eyeballs.  He  paused  in  his  vigorous 
strokes  of  the  razor  over  his  face. 

"I'm  going  to  take  care  of  you,"  he  said  looking  back  over  his  shoul 
der.  "And  then  I'm  going  to  take  care  of  myself.  There  is  love.  There 
is  truth.  And  she  is  innocent." 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  29 

Three  Dollars  and  Sixty  Cents 

THE  air  was  crisp  and  biting  cold.     Every  breath  formed  a  misty 
cloud   of   vapor.      The   newly   fallen   snow   crunched   musically   at 
each  step.     The  sky  above  was  a  dome  of  dark  blue — clear  and 
boundless.      Two    or    three    stars    twinkled    far    apart.      Trees    along    the 
avenue  hung  their  branches  heavy  and  spectre-like  in  the  bridal  attire  of 
winter.     Everyone  enjoyed  the  first  real  winter  evening. 

He  was  peaceful  and  contented  as  he  strolled  along  the  avenue.  It 
was  one  of  Nature's  novelties,  he  thought,  loved  by  all  because  of  it* 
newness. 

He  turned  to  cross  the  street.  Some  carriages  were  passing,  carrying 
women,  cloaked  for  the  first  time  in  their  heavy  winter  furs.  He  waited 
while  they  passed. 

Some  one  touched  him  gently  upon  the  arm.  A  young  girl  poorly 
but  prettily  dressed.  Perhaps  she  desired  his  assistance  in  crossing  the 
street.  He  raised  his  hat  to  her. 

"Will  you  take  me  with  you  please?"  the  girl  asked. 

He  turned,  surprised  at  the  request,  but  more  astonished  at  the  seri 
ously  sad.  yet  happily  expectant  eyes  that  gazed  up  to  him. 

"Take  you  with  me?  I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean,"  he 
added  in  an  apologetic  tone. 

"Take  me  anywhere  you'd  like  to,"  she  said,  flushing,  her  eyes 
evading  his  gaze. 

An  understanding  began  to  dawn  upon  him. 

"I  live  only  a  short  distance  from  here,"  he  answered.  "If  you 
wish  to  come  with  me  I  have  a  few  paintings  and  rugs  you  might  like 
to  see." 

So  together  they  went  to  his  apartment.     On  the  way  he  made  sev 
eral  attempts  at  conversation  but  won  no  response  from  the  girl. 
At  the  door  he  stopped  and  drew  his  latch-key. 

"Will  you  please  give  me  three  dollars  and  sixty  cents  if  I  go  in 
with  you?"  she  asked  timorously. 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  he  cried  in  surprise  while  he  stepped  aside 
to  admit  her  into  the  vestibule. 

She  removed  her  hat  and  gazed  curiously  about  her. 

"Do  you  like  my  paintings?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  she  answered,  looking  blankly  about  the  room, 
though  only  little  interested  in  what  she  saw. 

He  could  not  explain  the  girl's  peculiar  actions.  Her  queer  conduct 
was  so  different. 

*         *         *         *         * 


30  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

She  had  refused  a  gold  piece,  but  insisted  on  receiving  only  three 
dollars  and  sixty  cents. 

He  counted  out  the  exact  change  for  her. 

She  left  him  in  a  quandary.  He  opened  the  window  just  in  time 
to  hear  the  door  below  creak  and  see  her  tripping  down  the  steps  out 
onto  the  snowy  walk.  The  slender  girlish  form  was  hurrying  along, 
childlike  and  innocent. 

He  was  curious.  He  wanted  to  know  more  about  this  girl.  Why 
had  she  acted  so  differently?  Who  was  she  and  where  had  she  gone? 
An  impulse  seized  him.  He  dashed  downstairs,  took  overcoat  and  hat 
and  ran  out  into  the  street  after  the  figure  vanishing  in  the  darkness. 

He  spied  her  nearly  a  block  and  a  half  away.  He  followed.  She 
turned  a  corner  and  turned,  with  him  in  pursuit.  He  found  himself  in 
a  strange  neighborhood. 

Finally  the  girl  entered  a  dimly  lighted  drug  store.  He  waited 
for  her. 

What  a  surprise!  Such  a  neighborhood  close  to  his  apartments.  Tall 
tenement  buildings  with  ragged,  dirty  curtains  at  the  windows.  The 
drug  store  was  old-fashioned.  Modern  things  had  not  made  their  mark 
here.  Flickering  gas  lights  burned  behind  two  small,  green  and  red 
globes  in  the  window.  An  old  stove  stood  near  the  door  and  the  glass 
in  two  of  the  show  cases  was  broken. 

The  mystery  girl  remained  a  short  time  only.  She  reappeared  and 
hurried  along.  He  followed  but  lost  her.  She  must  have  slipped  into 
one  of  the  many  buildings. 

He  entered  the  store  and  addressed  the  greasy  proprietor  behind  the 
prescription  counter. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  is  the  girl  who  left  a  few  minutes  ago  known 
to  you?" 

"A  girl?"  the  druggist  answered.  "Oh,  yes,  the  little  girl?  I 
think  she  lives  in  the  neighborhood  somewhere  close  by.  You  know 
how  they  are  in  this  district.  They  think  the  druggist,  the  physician  and 
the  undertaker  are  charitable  institutions.  They  buy  very  little  and  only 
when  they  are  in  need.  Then  they  come  to  me  and  ask  for  crdit.  Why 
should  I  trust  them?  If  I  do,  they  don't  come  back  with  the  money. 

"Take  this  girl  for  instance.  She  came  this  morning  with  a  prescrip 
tion  for  her  mother,  who  is  sick.  An  expensive  prescription — three  dol 
lars  and  sixty  cents.  She  wanted  me  to  trust  her.  I  refused.  She  left 
the  prescription  and  promised  to  call  for  the  medicine  to-night.  These 
people  always  find  a  way  to  get  a  little  money  when  the  need  is  vital. 
I  told  her  she  could  get  it  if  she  only  tried.  You  see  I  was  right." 


SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES  31 

Liars 

A  WARM   July  evening  in   the  little   park  near  the   railroad  station. 
Half  an  hour  before  the  arrival  of  the  Twentieth  Century  Lim 
ited.     Under  a  wide-spreading  tree  Pearl  and  Bill  nestled  in  the 
shadow  of  darkness. 

Pearl   embraces   Bill    gently,    tenderly,   clings   to   him,   kisses   his   lips 
and  eyes  repeatedly.     From  a  nearby  amusement  park  the  sound  of  music 
borne  by   the  wind.     And   now,   clearly   distinguished   the   strain: 
Glow,    little    glow-worm,    glimmer,    glimmer " 

"Bill,"  sobs  Pearl,  "if  you  ever  hear  this  strain  again,  remember 
me  and  our  parting  of  to-day." 

(Sobbing   softly). 

"I  cannot  live  without  you.     .     .     .     Let  me  go  with  you. 
Take  me  with  you." 

"Be   sensible,   Pearl,"   Bill   persuades. 

"You  can't  leave  your  mother  just  now  and  I  have  to  go  back  to 
that  miserable  little  city.  How  unhappy  you  would  be  out  there  if  I 
couldn't  always  be  with  you! 

"And  you  know  I  could  not. 

"Come,  sweetheart,  walk  over  with  me  to  the  train  so  I  may  have 
you  until  the  last  second  and  at  Christmas  time  I'll  come  again. 

"That  is  not  far  off.     Just  five  months. 

"And  we'll  write  to  each  other  and  not  forget  each  other. 

"Won't  you,  Pearl,  my  dearling,  my  only  one?" 

And  he  kisses  her  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  The  far  off  music 
plays: 

"Glow,   little   glow-worm,   glimmer,   glimmer " 

She  follows  him,  step  by  step,  to  the  ticket  office,  to  the  baggage 
agent,  to  the  station  platform,  to  the  coach. 

A  last  embrace. 

The   train  moves. 

Pearl  waves  her  tear-wet  handkerchief  and  the  music  plays: 
"Glow,   little   glow-worm,   glimmer,   glimmer " 

II. 

TWO  days  later  in  the  city. 
Bill  lounges  on  the  couch  of  his  hotel  room.     Nestled  up  to  him — 
Mae.     Her  black  hair  is  disheveled.     The  brown,  hazel  eyes  are 
laughing.     The  little  white  teeth,   the   fresh   red   lips,   the  dimples  in   the 
cheek — everything  cheer  and  happiness. 


32  SENTIMENTAL  STUDIES 

And  she  kisses  him  again  and  again:  "Finally  you  came!  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with  myself  in  that  lonely,  lonesome  town  and  so  I 
came  up  here  to  meet  you.  And  to-morrow  we  shall  travel  home  to 
gether  and  if  the  sun  shines  as  to-day  it  will  be  glorious! 

"Billy,  my  Billy "  She  kisses  him  madly.  And  from  the  din 
ing  room  through  the  open  window: 

"Glow,   little   glow-worm,   glimmer,   glimmer " 

III. 

IN   the  parlor  of   Pearl's  mother. 
It  is  evening.     The  light  is  not  turned  on. 
Pearl  leans  against  the  window  sill. 
At  her  side — Arthur — cheek  against  cheek. 

"Your  mother  stays  away  long  to-day  and  in  the  meantime  I  can 
caress  .  .  .  can  kiss  you." 

He  kisses  her:  "Do  you  really  care  for  me?" 
"If  you  could  only  feel  how  I  love  you,  Pearl,  my  darling! 
"And  you  really  love  me?" 

She   throws  her  arms  about  him,   looks  in  his  eyes,  whispers  in   his 
ear  and  kisses  him.     In  the  adjoining  room  her  sister  plays  on  the  piano: 
"Glow,   little   glow-worm,   glimmer,   glimmer " 

The  One  Missive 

TWO  days  later,  Pearl  receives  a  postal  from  Bill. 
"Dearest:   I   am  sitting  in  this  desolate  hotel  waiting  for  the  train 
that  will  take  me  farther  away  from  you.     Downstairs  in  the  dining 
room  the  music  plays: 

"  'Glow,  little  glow-worm,  glimmer,  glimmer ' 

"I   think  of  you  and  love  you.     Your  Bill." 

The  Other  Missive 

AND  among  the  mail  awaiting  him.  Bill  found  a  little  letter. 
"Billy   Dear:    You   have   been    away    two   days    and   it   seems    an 
eternity.     In  the  adjoining  room  my  sister  plays: 

"  'Glow,  little  glow-worm,  glimmer,  glimmer ' 

"She  doesn't  know  how  that  air  tortures  me.  I  love  only  you  and 
long  for  you.  Pearl." 


THE  UttKAK i 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFOKNU 
LOS  ANGELES 


A     000917328     7 


